"But they are dead; those two are dead! "Twas throwing words away; for still And said, "Nay, we are seven !" SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN; WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. 1798. — 1798. In the sweet shire of Cardigan, An old Man dwells, a little man, 'Tis said he once was tall. A running huntsman merry; And still the centre of his cheek Is red as a ripe cherry. No man like him the horn could sound, The halloo of Simon Lee. In those proud days, he little cared For husbandry or tillage; To blither tasks did Simon rouse The sleepers of the village. IO He all the country could outrun, For when the chiming hounds are out, But, oh the heavy change!-- bereft Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! In liveried poverty. His Master's dead, — and no one now Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor. And he is lean and he is sick; His body, dwindled and awry, Rests upon ankles swollen and thick; One prop he has, and only one : Lives with him, near the waterfall, Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 20 309 40 This scrap of land he from the heath Oft, working by her husband's side, And though you with your utmost skill 'Tis little, very little - all That they can do between them. Few months of life has he in store, As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more My gentle Reader, I perceive O Reader! had you in your mind A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, It is no tale; but, should you think, 50 60 70 One summer day I chanced to see The mattock tottered in his hand; That at the root of the old tree "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, I struck, and with a single blow At which the poor old Man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, They never would have done. I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. 80 90 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 1798. — 1798. I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link And much it grieved my heart to think Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The birds around me hopped and played, The budding twigs spread out their fan, And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. ΙΟ 20 |